The Mather Triad: Series Boxed Set (Chloe Mather Thrillers)

by Lawrence Kelter

Donovan and Scarlett were trapped in the room as the physician readied the paddles to jolt Blake’s heart back into rhythm. Donovan was stricken by the chaos and impending devastation. Scarlett had recovered sufficiently to understand that their moment had gone horribly and irreversibly wrong. The wheels were already turning in her head as she struggled to come up with a plan to salvage the fiasco.

  The doctor shouted, “Clear!”

  Blake’s body racked in spasm as the hot current sizzled through his chest and sparked his heart.

  The physician glanced at the heart monitor with intensity, waiting for the first spike to appear. He had already prepared the paddles to shock Blake for a second time when he heard the blip and saw the first arc on the monitor. “Thank God,” he said with relief, stuffed his stethoscope buds into his ears, and pressed them to Blake’s chest. “We’ve got a rhythm,” he reported happily.

  A sigh of relief rose from the crowd.

  Blake’s mother had just come to. “He’s okay, Mom,” Matt told her as he continued to sob. “He’s okay.”

  A few seconds passed before Scarlett’s mind cleared. Well, that’s a fucking relief. She sighed and squeezed her husband’s hand to reassure him that everything was going to be all right. The murmur in the room had begun to settle down when the same reporter who had phoned in the scoop forced his way back into the room with his video cameraman. He pushed his microphone into Donovan’s face. “Senator,” he began with determination, “we’ve just heard that the police have uncovered the remains of several human bodies at the Wind Mark Golf Course on the property that was once owned and controlled by your father, Bairre Donovan. Can you comment, Senator?”

  Aghast, Donovan glanced at Scarlett, hoping she’d be able to bail him out of the catastrophe he was facing, but she was as stunned as he was. He looked around as additional reporters pushed into the room and realized that he was trapped. “I have no comment,” he whispered and tried to push through the crowd, but the reporters stood fast, blocking his exit.

  “It’s believed the body of a union official has been found,” the reporter persisted. “The body of a man your father reportedly had grave differences with.”

  “They’ve already dug up three bodies,” a second reporter shouted. “Senator, did your father have all those men killed? How many were there, Senator? The people have the right to know.”

  Scarlet clutched her heart. Eying Blake Corey, she wondered if her heart were about to seize as well. She felt the blood drain from her face. The room dimmed around her and she did what any devout phony would do—she pretended to faint.

  Chapter 67

  “It was smart of you to keep your name and the bureau out of the press,” Ambler said, his voice complimentary as it poured over my phone. “I don’t know how the hell you pulled this one off, but now I understand why the deputy director is such a fan of yours,” he continued. I’d allowed Lauda to take credit for the find and was happy to do so. “You started a shit storm, though.” Ambler chuckled. “There’s already word out of Washington that Donovan’s going to resign his senate seat. It’s not every day that the senate whip ends up collateral damage in a multiple homicide investigation. Jesus, Mather, is this the kind of thing I have to look forward to?”

  Probably. “Oh no, sir. Not at all.”

  “Any word on your father’s whereabouts?”

  “Not yet, sir—nothing on him or our UNSUB.”

  “I’d tell you to keep at it, but you’re supposed to be on leave. Ha! You’ll probably eliminate world hunger before you return to active duty. I tell you, if I had four more like you, I could run General Motors.”

  Ambler’s play on an old expression was popular way back when GM was the crown jewel in the scepter of American capitalism. “You’re dating yourself, sir.”

  “Yes, I am,” he boasted, “and I couldn’t care less. Anything you need from me, Mather?”

  “Not right now, sir. Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

  He signed off, leaving me to redirect my mental energy. Many of the original homeowners seemed to be well versed on the legends surrounding Beacon Hill. Benzino, it seemed, had been Bairre Donovan’s henchman, the gent who had run the union and the Beacon Hill Resort, the man who was father to US Senator James Donovan. A couple of the neighborhood old-timers had come forward to dazzle the authorities with tales of urban legend. Some may have been true and much of it was probably grossly inaccurate. Still, they all spoke freely about days when politics and crime were intimately mingled on Long Island.

  I, of all people, had stumbled upon all the skeletons in Donovan’s closet. His association with Benzino would not only tie him to the bodies found buried on the golf course, it would also tie him to the toxic dumping at Francisco Desicero Park. The story was of sufficient magnitude to fill headline banners for months and had already gone viral on the Internet. The press had already jumped to the conclusion that Blake Corey, the teen James Donovan had shown so much interest in, had likely developed cancer from the toxic dumping Bairre Donovan was responsible for. The Donovan Empire, one built on lies, corruption, and murder, was toppling as quickly as an avalanche.

  There was still a sea of curious onlookers late into the evening, gawking at the killing field the golf course had become and the men tearing it apart to find more bodies.

  My stamina was still not up to par, so I pulled the plug shortly after ten p.m. and got into my car to drive home.

  ~~~

  Many people had taken an interest in Mather’s presence at the golf course, Al Mather among them. He’d spent the last of his cash on the blonde at the Bethpage Motel, and now all he had in his pocket was an empty wallet and a debit card. The news bulletin had come on TV while he was still in the hooker’s room. He dressed quickly, immediately drove to the scene, and watched from a great distance to ensure that he wouldn’t be noticed. He stayed there late into the night and would have remained longer had he not seen his daughter leaving the community. He hurried off to retrieve his rental car and had been so focused on not being observed by his daughter that he didn’t notice that someone else was watching him watching her.

  Chapter 68

  The trip home was not a great distance as the crow flies, but no crow had ever flown as convoluted a route as this. What was only a dozen miles in straight-line distance took almost forty minutes to drive. My home would be in sight as soon as I turned the corner and I ached to see it, as I was feeling beyond tired and fading fast. Just then my cell phone buzzed. Son of a bitch! The banner “Suffolk Coroner” flashed on the screen. I obviously wasn’t myself because I was not in the mood to talk with Hodgkin, and I would’ve normally been thrilled to receive a potential lead regardless of the hour or my state of being. It was likely the only reason he’d be calling. “Hello, Doctor. Working late?” I pictured him hunched over the desk in his darkened office, his face illuminated by the light of a desk lamp.

  “Just catching up on my paperwork,” he said in his buoyant manner.

  “It’s eleven o’clock.”

  I had a sense that he was checking his watch. “Is it? I guess I lost track of the time. I hope I didn’t wake you, Agent Mather.”

  “Not at all,” I said in a way that would encourage his continued contribution.

  “Anyway, I thought you’d be eager to know that I just received the report from the medical lab we sent the skin samples to.”

  “The ones found on Benzino’s body?”

  “Yes. The tissue contained an inordinately high level of iron, indicating that Benzino’s assailant likely suffered from an extremely rare skin condition called porphyria.”

  “Extremely rare, you say.”

  “Extremely,” he repeated. “The occurrence in the population is so rare that it approaches zero.”

  “Would a person with this condition have recognizable symptoms?”

  “Most likely. Porphyria makes the skin so photosensitive that it turns red and blisters after just minimal contact with the sun. Your suspect would almos
t certainly have facial scarring on the areas commonly exposed to the sun.”

  Hodgkin’s findings were absolutely exceptional and unique in a way that would make our UNSUB an easy find.

  My house was in sight and I was just about to turn into the driveway when a second call came in. “I guess you informed Suffolk County homicide.”

  “Of course,” he replied in a matter-of-fact fashion.

  I backed out of the driveway, made a K-turn, and headed away from home. “Thanks, Dr. Hodgkin. I have to jump off and take another call.”

  “Good luck, Mather,” he said and disconnected.

  I picked up the incoming call. “Detective Lauda,” I began. “Calling about our light-sensitive UNSUB? You got a call from Hodgkin, I surmise?”

  “Better than that, Mather,” she said in a cocky tone. “I’ve got an address.”

  Chapter 69

  Bairre watched from the kitchen window as Scarlett kissed his son goodbye. Jim climbed aboard the family’s private helicopter which would take him to JFK for a flight to Ireland, where he’d be able to lie low for a while, at least long enough for the stories in the news to cool off, and give Bairre the time he needed to attempt triage on the wounded family image.

  Bairre Donovan was guilty of all of it: breach of fiduciary responsibility, fraud, larceny, murder, and worse … much worse. He was the man who stood behind others while toxic waste was dumped in a construction landfill meant for inert materials, a landfill he knew would become a children’s playground. He orchestrated the dumping of toxic waste to replace the money he had squandered pursuing his dream of bringing gambling to Long Island. He had caused sickness and misery that would one day deprive Blake Corey of his life and future, and had no doubt sickened and killed countless others.

  “The jig’s up, Bairre!” a menacing mechanical voice bellowed. He turned to see Scarlett sauntering into the kitchen in her silk robe, holding an electronic device to her mouth.

  “The hell is that?” he demanded.

  “My voice-changer thingy. You couldn’t expect me to do your bidding with a hired killer for you in my sweet ol’ Southern twang, now could ya?”

  “You used that thing when you spoke to that lamebrain leper, did ya? You sound like that outer space creature. What the hell do they call him? … Darth Vader.”

  “I did,” she said through the voice changer and then lowered it away from her mouth. “I can’t believe it, all that work for nothing. Three men dead and three men scared so shitless they’d never talk to anyone about what happened, and yet …” The cat’s out of the bag now, she thought. Everyone will know if they don’t already. This story of how Bairre stood by while innocent children grew sick and died will be hotter than Kim Kardashian’s sex tape.

  “I think we’d have been okay if that ignoramus Benzino had buried those bodies where they would’ve stayed buried. It was perfect,” he said as he shook his head woefully. “We bulldozed the land with the bodies buried ten feet deep, and designed the golf course so the land would never be disturbed.”

  She hiked up her silk robe and boosted herself onto the kitchen counter with her naked legs spread wide apart. She put the voice changer back to her mouth. “Fuck me, Bairre,” she said in the synthesized voice. “All this hoopla has made my kitty wet.”

  He recoiled. “How the hell can you think of pleasures of the flesh at a time like this?” He grimaced. “And with your mother-in-law lying sedated not twenty feet from where we stand.”

  “Never stopped you before,” she said without the use of the device. “Take pity on a poor Southern belle who has lost everything. I’ll never be the First Lady. Hell, I’ll probably have to change my name and move to Australia or somewhere no one will recognize me. Stick your knotty old Irish shillelagh in me and make me feel like a real woman one last time.”

  “Are you daft, girl?” he asked with indignation. “Did you not hear me say your mother-in-law is in the next room?”

  “When did you lose your nerve, Bairre? You’ve been hitting my ass out on the beach for years while your wife and son slept. Besides, I gave her two tablets of Ambien before she went to bed. You could bang a kettle drum in her bedroom and she wouldn’t wake up.” She smiled wickedly and then bared herself to him. “Meow,” she said in a coquettish whisper. “Come and get it, you horny old Irish prick.”

  “Jesus H. Christ,” he swore and gazed skyward. “I’m only human, Lord.” He clenched his fists in anguish. “God give me the strength.” He dropped his pajama pants and advanced.

  “Ahhhh,” she gasped and slowly closed her eyes to savor the moment. She pulled his face into her bosom. “Now that’s a real man. Would you believe I tried to fuck the grief out of your son last night and the silly little boy couldn’t even get it up? He’s not half the man his father is.”

  “Quiet, girl,” he muttered in his thick brogue as he grabbed her around the flank and pushed deeply into her. “This is wicked,” he squealed. “Sweet Jesus, even for me,” he lamented.

  “Harder!” she demanded in the mechanical voice. “Fuck me harder.” She writhed like a serpent in front of him, her body undulating like the sway of sheer curtains flapping against a slight breeze. One last time, “Harder!”

  Bairre was lost in the moment. He’d found a place in his mind where self-loathing could not reach him. His mind was devoid of thought, filled with the static of white noise as he advanced and receded like the pounding surf. He was so self-absorbed that he hardly noticed her body grow still. Finally, he said, “What’s wrong?” He slowly looked up at her and saw abject horror in her eyes.

  “And I thought I was fucking deranged,” Wrga spat. His gun was pointed directly at Bairre’s back.

  Bairre twisted his neck in an effort to see the interloper.

  “Don’t move!” Wrga ordered. He watched as Scarlett stealthily lowered the voice changer and pushed it behind her. “It’s too late for that, bitch. ‘Harder,’” he howled. “What a pair of freaks. Now here’s a snapshot I could sell to the press for a bundle of money. I have to say I’m completely surprised—that voice gizmo made you sound like a man. But you’re not a man, are you? You’re just a nasty bitch who gets off on other people’s pain.”

  “How’d—” Scarlett began to ask.

  “How’d I find you? You can figure things out pretty quickly when your life is at stake. I got the hint five seconds after the news exploded on TV—Bairre Donovan, the mastermind behind the murder of Joe Spencer and others, the man who …” He shrugged. “How many were there, Bairre? Five? Ten? The police are pulling bodies out of the golf course like potatoes on harvest day. I was so fascinated I had to go there and see for myself.” He smirked and locked eyes with Scarlett. “How’d I find you?” he asked rhetorically. “A man’s given a list of six people to kill and instructions to find out exactly where skeletons were buried so that they could be dug up and properly disposed of. And then the news ties this old letch to the whole thing. Who would’ve thought it would happen this way. I killed three men just to find out where your skeletons were buried and the rain did all the work for us. I got in the car and drove straight to the golf course. Unbelievable.”

  “Let me turn and face you,” Bairre said, trying to bargain for his life. “We can work this out like men.”

  “Sure,” Wrga began sarcastically. “I’ll strike a bargain with a man responsible for countless murders, a man who sat and watched kids get sick and die from the shit he dumped where he knew a playground was going to be built. Yeah, right. Good luck with that.” He pulled back the hammer on his gun. “A bad-tempered old mick who’s banging his son’s wife. Too bad the senator drove away before you stuck your wrinkled old dick in his wife. Ouch!” Wrga grimaced. “I’m sure that would’ve really stung the senator.”

  Bairre turned and looked Scarlett in the eye. “This is what comes from cursed money,” he mourned as the memory of his uncle’s message flooded back into his mind and he was reminded of how his great uncle Bradan stole from the villagers wh
en they were starving during the Great Famine.

  Despite the predicament, Scarlett’s voice still rang with entitlement. “If it’s more money you want, we can make you as rich as a king. Now put down that stupid gun and let’s talk business,” she insisted.

  Wrga shrugged off the bribe. “It’s not about the money, sweetness. It’s about you planning on being the First Lady and me being the one to stick it in your ass and break it off. It’s the lousy fucking way you spoke to me, you callous piece of shit, and it’s about the threat.”

  She seemed confused. “What threat?”

  “‘You find Rossetti or I’ll find you!’ You’re one of those high and mighty bitches who thinks that she can get away with anything. You’re too arrogant to understand that there are people you can threaten and people you can’t, and … I still remember every rotten word you said to me. You think it’s easy living with my condition? Fuck you.” He fired until the cylinders in his gun were empty. Each bullet passed through his body into hers, taking both of their worthless lives at the same time.

  Bairre’s vision dimmed. From the corner of his eye he saw a final wave crash on the beach. The Atlantic, which his wife said was filled with shamrocks, was actually filled with spilt blood. The legacy of Donovan transgressions and the decades of pain and suffering they had wrought on others had finally found their way home.

  Wrga sneered at Scarlett’s lifeless face. “How many hit men burst into flames when they’re exposed to the sun?” he said, repeating the insult that had plagued him for days. “Burn in hell, you nasty cunt!”

  ~~~

  Twenty feet away, Claire Donovan moaned in her sleep. She turned over and slept another five hours while the bodies of her husband and daughter-in-law cooled in the kitchen.

  Chapter 70

  I was still half asleep as I waded out the front door to pick up the morning paper. I hadn’t gotten home until three a.m., after accompanying Lauda and other Suffolk County police to the home of Milosh Wrga. His rap sheet, cross-referenced with the very short list of porphyria patients on record, led us to his address. We found his home empty, but there was no doubt that he suffered from a rare skin disease. Hodgkin had researched the obscure trait and informed Lauda of the kind of medical paraphernalia we might find in his home. It was all there and then some. However, there was no evidence of his having murdered three men. He was a person of interest in Benzino’s murder investigations. Homicide records on Nunzio Faciamano and Michael Otho were going to be reviewed and checked for the presence of shed skin. If Wrga’s skin residue was found on all three victims … case closed. All Suffolk County PD had to do was find him.